Wait!

Had company this weekend.....no end of eating. No sign of sleeping.

I'm drunk with tiredness.

Why isn't there a pause button so I can get caught up mentally, physically, etc., before the week progresses?

Sometimes A Mirror Can Be Your Friend

Twice in as many days I've seen someone walking by and had those words pop into my mind: sometimes a mirror can be your friend.

The first time was yesterday when I was driving away from the Y. A lady was walking in and I noticed some sort of mark on her pants. As I slowly drove by and came even with her, I could see that it was one of those strips that are on new pants which tell the size of the pants about eight times. 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 all in a row. Anyway, I couldn't quite see what size it said (I was curious), though from the look of things it wasn't, say, a four or a six.

And then today I was sitting in my van, waiting to pick up my kids from school, when a mom hurried by with this strange growth emerging from the back of her shirt. Upon closer examination, I realized that it was a shoulder pad! It was twisted all strange and coming out of the neck of her shirt. How on earth did it get there? And how could she not feel it? It must've felt strange. I know it sure looked strange. I laughed right out loud when I realized what it was. (Which isn't to say I was laughing meanly at her; it was simply a comical sight.)

There've been so many times when I've come across someone and cringed---skirt caught up in the back, trailing something mysterious from a shoe, etc. And why is it always so awkward to say---"hey, the whole world can see your backside"? I don't know, but it just is. Maybe I'll just carry my friend, the mirror, around at all times---in addition to keeping myself put together properly, I can whip it out when it's warranted, wave it around some clueless fashion "don't" and save myself the awkward hemming and hawing.

Risk vs. Stupidity

There was a news item in our paper today that reminded me of a similar story I heard over the holidays. Both were quite disturbing and are unfortunately not as isolated as they should be.

Yesterday, in a neighboring town, a young man (20) waited impatiently at the gates for an oncoming train. (You already know where I'm going with this.) In his vehicle was his 18-year-old girlfriend. Several people were in front of him in line, waiting, and a couple cars were behind him. Waiting. Because that's what you do when a train is coming, when the gates are down and the lights are flashing. Drivers in others cars disclosed later that they could see he was agitated and clearly upset at waiting. Finally, he swung out of line and passed the cars in front of him toward the gates. A driver rolled down his window and yelled at the man to stop. He didn't and as he passed around the gate, the commuter train slammed into him, nearly splitting his truck in two. His girlfriend was thrown from the truck and died. He suffered serious injury and is recovering.

Several months ago, over Thanksgiving, an aunt of mine retold a happening near where she lives in Southern California. She and my uncle were driving home after dinner; it was dark---probably around 8:00 or 9:00. She was driving through town on familiar streets and decided to move one lane over on her two-lane side of the road. Minutes after she moved over, she noticed a cluster of young boys (9-12) on the street corner. One of them suddenly rushed out into the lane she had just been in. He then darted back to the corner to the high-fives and laughter of his friends. My aunt was quite upset at this and shaken, thinking about how easily she could've been in that lane, been going a little too fast, not been paying attention, etc. She got home about five minutes later and within twenty minutes, she heard sirens. She knew with certainty that something must have happened with those boys. The next day she heard that an SUV, traveling the speed limit, struck a young boy (I think he was 10 or 12) who darted out in front of her vehicle before she had time to effectively react. The impact threw the boy quite a distance into a lightpole and he later died. The parents are suing.

Yes, you read that right: the parent are suing.

Where were these parents when their kids were out wandering the streets on a weeknight at 9:00 playing Chicken? Why didn't they have their young kids home, sitting around the house or even in bed perhaps? My aunt said that regularly parents drop their kids off at the movie theater that was in the shopping center there and then come back hours later to pick them up. Not a very trustworthy babysitter.

In both these events, I can't get my mind around the utter stupidity of these people's actions. Is it a male thing, this need for an adrenaline rush no matter the risk? Is that sexist? Is it boredom? Is it a sense of being immortal? Is there simply no thought behind it? The first guy was clearly impatient. It didn't sound like a dare or a matter of wanting to see if he could beat the train for the fun of it. But what---what---could be so important that waiting five more minutes for it is too much? What is so important that it's worth risking life to get it or to get there? There's a tendency to think that what we're doing and where we're going is more important than what other people are doing and where they're going. Our schedules are hectic and we're running behind and there's no time for waiting or being careful. Or it's just a matter of stupidity.

With the young boy---the mind boggles. Where do you even start with this? I think back to when I was younger and I try to remember if there was ever any thought of doing something life-threatening just for the sheer fun of it, for the rush. Nope. Can't think of a time I ever did. I did risky things, I'm sure, and even stupid things. I don't think, though, that I weighed life in the balance and took risk instead. Are kids bored? Is the price to impress peers really that high now? Do I need to keep my three school-age boys under lock and key? Obviously there's a huge range between not living at all and making smart choices even with friends. I hope I'm instilling enough confidence and sense in my kids that nobody would be worth impressing that much. Hopefully they'll never feel it necessary to prove themselves in such a way; hopefully they'll never be so in need of entertainment that a game of Chicken would seem a reasonable solution.

I know the parents in situations such as this are in terrible pain and desolation. One assumes they have to be. But there has to be a point in which responsibility is claimed. To me, the most innocent victim really is the poor person behind the wheel. Imagine living the rest of your life with the image of that playing through your mind. You don't forget the sound, the visual, the terror. I'm sure it's a nightmare that plays over and over.

Hopefully there's even one person who reads or hears of such a thing and resolves to never be that particular statistic. Ten more minutes at the gate won't be noticeable tomorrow. Certainly not next week. Some ribbing from friends because you won't participate pales in comparison to death. Maybe new friends are in order.

It would be nice to think that stories like these won't come around again. Unfortunately, I'm sure that won't be the case.

Empty As My Pockets

There's a restaurant near my house that opened its doors some time ago. Not so long ago, but not exactly yesterday. I've been by this spot numerous times. It's right next door to a Subway sandwich place where my oldest son often purchases a sandwich before a wrestling tournament. I've driven by for various other reasons at all different times of day and night. And not one. single. time. have I ever seen anyone in the restaurant. Never have I seen anyone sitting at a table, having a meal. I cringe every time I drive by and see it sitting there, empty as a beer closet in premises where painters have been at work (name the author of this quote. Can you do it without a google search?). Sometimes I even try to avoid looking but my eyes have a mind of their own, zinging over to the windows, frantically searching for any sign of life. Nothing.

Now I know what you're thinking: I could be a customer!! But hold on! First of all, it's a vegetarian restaurant and mostly I'm a carnivore. You know, I guess that's not really even true though I do like a hamburger now and then. And I eat a lot of chicken. Other than that, I could do vegetarian okay. Especially for a meal here and there. So I can't really use that as my excuse, I suppose, but there's something that gives me pause about going to a restaurant where no one else ever goes. I'm assuming that all those un-customers know something I don't. They can't all be wrong, can they?

I know someone has to be first, but I've never been a big fan of being first at certain things: I'd never be first for a surgery of any kind, for instance. Here, let me perform your open-heart surgery. By the way, I've never done this before, but it'll be fine. Obviously someone somewhere was first for these things. And I applaud them; I admire their courage. And anyway, come on, you say--clearly, the only possible downside of being first at a restaurant is a bad meal and not, say, death. Right? Though I suppose there's always that possibility after all. You see how complicated it gets.

So what's the problem with this place? Location? Lack of advertising? Aesthetically unappealing? (Somewhat, yes.) Does it smell?

I just always feel so bad for people who have an idea that they think is really great and then nobody comes. I feel a sort of embarrassed compassion. What if it was a life-long dream? What if they've invested everything in it? Makes me hurt, kind of. Even so, I've got to run. I'm meeting a friend at In 'N' Out.

Fierce Competition

Here's another small excerpt from the previous-mentioned book:

"Sorry, Maureen...I'm trying to tell you about my whole life."

"No one's stopping you, " said Jess. "But you've got to make it more interesting. That's why we drift off and talk about biscuits."

See, now, that's how I feel sometimes. Why does everyone keep drifting off and talking about biscuits. Biscuits! They are delicious---especially warm and fresh out of the oven, with butter and honey. Mmm. Sometimes it does seem like biscuits might be a little more interesting than my average day.

Which is okay, really. Sometimes interesting costs too much.

It Is Still January, Right?

Could someone explain to me why there are already bathing suits in the stores? I really don't get this.

Name That Book

This is an excerpt from a book I recently started. Tell me if you recognize what it's from. And if you know, if you've read it, don't give anything away! I just started (and am enjoying it immensely).

This was great:

"It helped that he looked like a rock star, with his hair and his leather jacket and all that, but my feeling wasn't anything to do with music; I just mean that I could tell we needed JJ, and so when he appeared it felt right. He wasn't Ringo, though. He was more like Paul. Maureen was Ringo, except she wasn't very funny. I was George, except I wasn't shy or spiritual. Martin was John, except he wasn't talented or cool. Thinking about it, maybe we were more like another group with four people in it."

Looks Like Muskrat Love

I recently mentioned a radio station that plays songs which they consider to be hits from the dark place. That has made me think about other songs which I opine should be on the list.

It would take a lot of thinking to really narrow it down, but probably---off the top of my head---the song eclipsing all others on the list right now would have to be: Muskrat Love by Captain and Tennille. What the sam hill is muskrat love?? That has got to be the corniest song ever and the tune does nothing for me either.

I'd love to see what you'd add to the list....and if there's a particular reason, add that too.

I Have A Dream

Martin Luther King, Jr. and I. We have a dream.

I know MLK day has come and gone. I was busy. And I know that MLK's dream was far-sighted, deep, selfless, life-changing, humanitarian, historical. Mine is self-centered, narrow, and all about me. We're not so much alike, MLK and me. And our dreams--this one in particular--have nothing in common.

I have a dream about a house. And the house is nothing fancy or huge or out-of-the-ordinary. It's fairly small and not-so-special. But it's somewhere by the ocean, where the sea can be viewed from the front living room window. The house is always clean. It has lots of windows and is bright and airy-feeling. There is lots of white and off-white. The walls have colors. There aren't any piles of anything to be found. Everything has a place and is organized. There isn't an abundance of furniture but what there is is comfortable and inviting. The living room--the front room, I like to call it---is never used as a sports field or a gymnasium. Nothing ever gets broken and no furniture gets shoved to the side of the room to make room for the latest game or athletic activity.

In this front room, like I said, you can see the ocean from the large window, and you can spend hours just sitting there watching it. When you feel moved to, you can lace up your shoes or go barefoot if you prefer and walk across the street and then down some age-old stairs, down to the sand. It's that close.

There is nothing unfinished in the house. Everything is painted, every baseboard is on. Every floor is finished--every room completely done.

There are lots of books and magazines. There are fresh flowers in each room. The bathrooms, two of them, are squeaky clean and sparkling with fresh towels. The kitchen is open and airy, not very big but very organized. A round table, a gleaming smooth wood floor, clean and clear countertops---no sign of a dirty dish. There is no empty wrapper which didn't quite make it to the garbage can on the table or the counters.

There is no unfolded laundry or unfolded towels.

There aren't any unmade beds.

There is music softly playing from the front room, something wordless but not sad or melancholy. The piano in the corner is waiting with music displayed.

I sit in this room and feel myself breathe....I feel myself unwind. My mind clears. My body relaxes. This is MY house. I dream of this house. In my mind, it exists in all its detail as though it were real. As you can tell, no one really lives very hard in this house; either that or it magically self-cleans. But I did say, did I not, that this is a dream house.

And so, after spending time at said house, when I have had enough of this peace and quiet, when I am tired of watching the endless movement of the water, when I have had enough of me, I scamper home to this disorganized, sometimes messy, unfinished, loud, voice-filled wonderful home of OURS.

I wouldn't trade it for my dream house in a million years.

(If I could, though, I would have both. That's why it's called a dream, yes? I guess you could also insert "fantasy". Either one works).

Say What?

Overheard (not by me) on a bus:

Lady #1: "What did you do to your hair? It looks like a wig."

Lady #2: "It is a wig."

Lady #1: "Oh, you'd never know."

Twilight Zone

Sometimes the past can reach up through the years and tap the present on its shoulder. It's surreal, you feel a touch off-track. A bit out-of-sorts and off-kilter. Like a skip in the record. Then the world shifts ever so slightly and everything returns to normal once again.

I've Been Tagged

Meow from Down Under has tagged me, so I guess I'm it:

2 names you go by: By-Cracky :), mom
2 parts of your heritage: Swedish, English
2 things that scare you: the thought of dying while my children are young or losing someone close to me (child, husband, close friend)
2 of your everyday essentials: Diet Coke, the funnies page
2 things you are wearing right now: T-shirt, pajama bottoms
2 things you want in a relationship: Laughter, a safe place to be me
2 truths: Kindness is always appropriate, It's never too late to say "thank you"
2 of your favorite hobbies: Reading, Crosswords
2 things you want really badly: to organize every room in my house, to not be so crabby
2 places you want to go on vacation: somewhere in Europe, somewhere tropical
2 things you want to do before you die: travel, see my children grown-up and happy
2 ways that you are stereotypically a chick: I love purses, I openly read People magazine
2 things you are thinking about now: Why am I not in bed when I'm so tired? I wonder if there's time to play an online Scrabble game?
2 stores you shop at: T.J. Maxx, Safeway
2 people to tag: Left-Coast Sister/Prrrof and DDM (we'll see if they notice they've been tagged).

That's all, folks. I hope someone is still awake.

You Light Up My Life

There's a radio station in our area that does something called "Ten at Ten" where they play ten songs from years past and refer to them (as I discovered tonight) as "Hits From Hell". Tonight while driving to pick up my oldest from a friend's house, I hear all these great old songs from the past that my cousin and I used to sing at the top our lungs. Then the D.J. says, "...and another for the Hits From Hell." And I was offended. HEY! Of what does he talk? Now, a few of them I had to agree belonged in the category and while the rest I wouldn't necessarily listen to now on purpose, still.....they were great songs. In their time. Leave 'em alone.

The song in the title of this post was the one picked by voters as the worst one of the list for tonight. Think about how many people have never even heard of it. That makes me older than I feel.

The Fourteenth Guest

So today is Friday the 13th. I'm always amazed at how otherwise perfectly logical people can have hidden superstitions they harbor which turn them into silly little scaredy-cats. I kid, of course, and exaggerate. Kind of. This idea of not marking the 13th floor of a hotel, for instance---not marking the 13th room: I don't really get it. As if, somehow by saying it's the 14th floor, everything's safe. As though the 13th floor is hovering somewhere, invisible, and the 14th floor just settled in to take its place. It's still the 13th floor, people. It didn't go anywhere.

Anyway, there is an "occupation" out there that I love the idea of: that is, the 14th guest. There's a French word for it that completely eludes me at this time (someone will know it, so please share). When there is a function of sorts, a dinner, and only 13 guests, this person---this 14th guest---is called into action. Can you imagine? "What's your job?" "Oh, I eat wonderful dinners and attend lavish parties whenever a 14th guest is needed." Where can I sign up?

I know there are people and cultures who are very governed by superstition or whatever word could be substituted. I don't want to be casual and condescending about that. I just don't really understand it, I guess. To me it's more than a bit fascinating to realize how much our imaginations can have power over logic. A seed of superstition planted can way outgrow any sort of logical reasoning held up next to it. And there are hundreds out there---for any occasion. You can check some of them out here.

My youngest son was born on a Friday the 13th. I have to say it gave me pause---and not because of any superstition but because I didn't want him to have to endure the round of jokes and comments. It'd be akin, somewhat, to being born on Halloween (which my middle child escaped by three days. Whew.) As long as he doesn't buy into the "don't walk under ladders, watch out for black cats" etc., etc., it'll be okay.

For the rest of you who do: good luck today! Best to stay inside. If you're lucky, like I am, you've got a really good book to keep you company.

It's Hard To Turn That Last Page

Getting close to the end of my book. Sometimes I'll set it down for awhile and come back to it later. Torture myself a little. Because I hate when a good book's all done. And then what? It's over now. Finished. What a let-down.

Which means it'll soon be time for another book. What I need are some suggestions. I've gotten some good ones in the past. Time for more. Bring 'em on! What's a favorite that you've read?

He Strikes Again!

In a good way. I'm talking about boy-o-mine. You remember the purse? Well, anyway, this is similar on maybe a different scale.

There's a new book out, the next in a series that I like, and I've been wanting to read it but I haven't felt like actually buying it. So I've been impatiently waiting for my library to go through its ding-dong waiting list and get to ME.

You can figure the rest. I came home yesterday, plopped down on my bed amidst a tangle of pillows (that guys never get. I don't know if I do either, but they look purdy. Right?). Like the princess and the pea, I felt something underneath a pillow, moved it---and there sat my book! In all its new, unread glory! Yippee!

Don't expect nothin' out of me for the next day.

Pay More Attention, Dummies!

I'm getting sick and tired of seeing these dead squirrels all over the streets. Seems I can't go anywhere anymore without having to keep a keen eye on the street in case yet another squirrel carcass is blocking the road. Gross. Sometimes I even have to slow way down because there isn't a lot of room to just go around it. Can't they be a little more observant when trying to cross the road? And here's a tip, squirrel: don't run back into the street when a car is coming. Keep going toward the sidewalk. That's right.

At least I've never hit one. Then I'd really be mad.

Grand Larceny

I stole something again from Lisa. Perhaps she'll never even know. At any rate, this is a pretty nifty little endeavor. A clever and unique way to pass a little time. Enjoy.

What Exactly Are You Saying?

Is it a bad sign when your kids say with all sincerity and earnestness, "Look! We have hot dog buns. And they're not even stale!" Is there some sort of implication here?

Normally I don't mind grocery shopping, but every now and then it just gets old. All those meals to make all the time! All this eating business! Maybe an IV would just be easier, little personal IV's that people could hook up to themselves and then not have to waste all that time eating and preparing meals. And don't get me wrong! I love food. Love it. But sometimes the shopping and the chopping and the preparing and the cooking---it just gets old. I think I need a personal Martha Stewart. Nothing would ever be stale again.

Oh, and while I'm at it: how 'bout a personal trainer? And a housekeeper? And a gardener? Those celebrities---they've got the right idea, I tell you. Things would sure be looking up around here if someone was picking up the slack a little bit.

Homophones Can Be Confusing

It seems that in the past couple of months, quite a few people that we know have passed away from this life into the next. Most of them were older and had lived long, full lives. I recently referred to the one--a wonderful old man who left behind his wife of 61 years. Hard to imagine. My hat's off to them.

Anyway, at one of the funerals recently, my husband---who has a wonderful voice---was asked to sing. It was a complicated week in that I was going to be gone overnight on that day and the next so my in-laws were coming down to help out with the kids while I was gone. It happened that the funeral was on this same day, so we made plans for my husband's folks to pick up the kids from school. My husband was explaining all of this to the two youngest, explaining all the rigamarole: Maama and Poppa were going to pick them up from school because Mom's going to be gone until tomorrow and Daddy has to sing at a funeral. Some people we know had an aunt who died and the funeral's today and so Daddy will be gone too for a little while. After a few minutes of explanation, my youngest said in exasperation:

"All this trouble for an ant??"

Are We Having Fun Yet?

I have nothing of interest to say, so in case you were expecting something of that nature, you're bound to be disappointed. At any rate....

My two youngest sons have been completely captivated by tetherball these last several months. It's quite the "in" thing at their school. Lines form, sometimes 10 kids long, on the four tetherball courts so that kids can knock a ball on a string back and forth. And there's all the old familiar rules: no ropies, no holdies, etc., etc. I love that in this high-tech age a game like tetherball (conceived in the dark ages) still has holding power. We even have one at home, and my youngest son especially could play for hours and hours. The problem is, when my two youngest do play at home, they can NEVER---and I mean never---play without an argument breaking out within, oh, about five minutes. And often one of them gets hurt because the other pushed or hit (usually my youngest) because of frustration. Why can kids take the simplest thing and make it complicated, make it a battlefield?? Boys. Good grief. Remind me to never let them play something like football.

Truth Can Be Stranger Than Fiction

Two disturbing news items that I heard today:

• The first one is quite bizarre: a woman was discovered dead in her home after having been missing for ten hours. She was--get this--found in her home but wasn't discovered for such a long time because of the amount of junk and clutter in the home. Her husband said she was missing, police came and helped search. At first, they had trouble even entering the house because of all the stuff. They searched for hours, outside/inside, and finally found her. It was surmised by her husband that she fell while looking for the phone. She suffocated in. her. piles. While searching, there were times when the police hit their heads on the ceiling because the piles were so high. Is this just one of the worse cases of hoarding EVER? What a way to go. Creepy. Sad.

• In India, where the female gender is apparently not as "important", officials figure that there have been possibly as many as 10 million abortions of female fetuses in the last several years. Since the ultrasound has been introduced and families are able to determine the sex of the child, abortions have increased. And it's estimated that for every one legal abortion, there are about 10 illegal ones. Some places are now considering banning the ultrasound so as to prevent abortions. But won't that just result in baby girls mysteriously "disappearing" when, upon birth, it's discovered that the child is not a coveted male heir? I know there are similar atrocities that occur in other countries. It sounds kind of like a horror story. Is it just as horrifying there or is it business as usual? And this isn't about abortion so much as it's about abortion just because the baby's a girl. Hard to comprehend (being a girl and all). Actually, being human and all.

Two Plus Two Doesn't Always Equal Four

A dear, sweet old man we've known for a lot of years passed away last week. Today was his memorial service and my two youngest sons had a lot of questions. Mostly they wanted to know what he'd died from. I explained that he died because he was old. "But what did he die from?" So I explained that two months ago he had a heart attack and because he was old and his heart had been working for a lot of years (85, I think), it just couldn't recover from the heart attack. Both of my sons, independent of each other and at separate times, said: "Well, is Grandpa going to die? He had a heart attack; is he going to die?" Two days after Thanksgiving my Dad had a little scare---a "small" heart attack and is now doing excellently. But my kids did the math and figured out that two months was coming up and did that mean that Grandpa was going to die too?

It made me realize how many times kids have to struggle to come up with answers to big huge questions. They don't always ask these questions and so often get the answers wrong inside their own little minds and garnered from their tiny spheres of experience. I can remember as a kid coming to some erroneous conclusion about something---it made perfect sense to me at the time and seemed to be the only obvious answer. It would sometimes be years before somehow the true answer or correct reality would inadvertantly become clear and I'd realize---aha! I've always assumed X but Y is really true.

So....I hope my kids keep asking questions. Better to hear something painful or even to hear, "You know, I'm not sure about that" than to come up with something completely off-base and off-track and then live with unfounded fears and misconceptions for years.

Poor babies.

Get The Cane Out

Today was my husband's birthday. It was pretty boring and unexciting as birthdays go, but I guess when you get as old as he is (39), your heart probably can't take too much excitement!

Happy Birthday, Old Man.

If You'll Give Me Just A Few More Minutes, I Know I Could Make Something With These Letters

So I've been on a Scrabble kick since Christmas. My sister-in-law is into Scrabble right now (we don't get out much, as you can see!) and she plays online, etc. So we've been challenging each other now and then online. Occasionally I'll even play my husband, but I usually regret it after about five minutes because he beats me generally by several hundred points. Anyway, it's handy to know what words you can do with "q", especially "q without a u". Also there are some two-letter words that are good to know. Now, if you're a die-hard Scrabble player, you already know these. But if you aren't and just play occasionally, it's good to tuck a few of these away in the ole memory box to pull out later and stun your opponents:

some good Q words:

qadi, qaid, qat, qi, qua, (and---for a good ending-in-q word): suq

some good two letter words you might not know:

aa, ae, ai, al, ba, bo, de, fa, jo, ka, ki, la, li, lo, mi, mo, mu, na, ne, nu, od, oe, oi, om, op, os, oy, pe, qi, re, sh, si, ta, ti, um, un, ut, wo, xi, xu, ya, ye, yo, za.

So there. A bunch of stuff you didn't care about knowing but now maybe will come in handy someday. You never can tell.

A Dry Spell

I don't know what happened, but the words have all flown south I guess. I've nothing to say or write about. And it's an odd feeling---rather bereft---like an old friend has up and left. Perhaps, from the sounds of it, poetry is in order....

So. It's not that I've disappeared or I don't care. And it's not that anyone else does either, for that matter.

Hopefully inspiration will strike before dementia sets in and I forget how to write.

What's a girl to do?

While NoOne Was Looking, New York City Snuck In

Okay, well maybe not New York City. But seriously, when did my small town become a booming metropolis? Where did all these people come from? They scurry around like ants, running to and fro, clogging up my once easy-to-drive streets. What's going on around here?

In an area where the median home price was recently $750,000 and where homes are routinely higher than that, I can't figure out why there are so many more people here than ever before. Shouldn't that be a deterrent? And what is all this new building going on? New homes left and right? New stores? For those of us who happened to be here before things went crazy, it's a little startling to see such signs of frantic life.

I now have to allow twice as much time to get anywhere. And if it's morning or evening traffic, I have to add even more time. Parking in some places has become quite painful. If you're smart, you have a book or puzzle to do whilst waiting at lights because you spend quite a large portion of your day doing so.

When did this happen? Where was I? They're sneaky, these people. They came from all their towns, near and far. They snuck in, little by little---a slow infiltration---and now there are too many to round up. Sigh. (I say all of this in jest, of course. I've been practicing my elitest voice because it's good to have several masks to put on. I'm one of the infiltraters my own self---it's just that my pilgramage was a long time ago to the area and so I feel partial. I want it to be the way it was then. I'm not so keen for things to get busier and busier and more and more crowded. It was okay when it was me but it's not so great when it's everyone else. That's fair, isn't it?)

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em in line at the corner Starbucks I guess (or FourBucks, as Bryan has referred to it).

See you there.

Further Revelations

Still on the matter of the mining tragedy (see previous post): apparently mining officials knew 20 minutes after news broke of the "miraculous survival" that only one miner had, in fact, survived---not twelve. Yet they allowed families to celebrate for three hours while they apparently "verified that all their information was correct". Huh? If you know 20 minutes later that a terrible mistake has been made, can't you at least tell people: "Wait! Wrong information! We don't have all the details but a terrible mistake has been made!" Twenty minutes of false hope and celebration would surely have been less heartbreaking and appallingly morbid in each one's rear-view mirror than three hours. Three hours of joyful expectation.

I'm sure that being in any sort of official capacity under these circumstances and stresses would be quite awful. But it seems like this was handled about as poorly as was possible.

A Stunning Reversal

There's something so terrible about reading the headlines of the papers this morning that shout "Miners Found Alive!"---referring to the West Virginia mining accident where an explosion underground put 13 miners' lives at risk---when, in a stunning reversal of news that came across the internet around 3:00 this morning, it was discovered that actually 12 of the 13 miners had died.

I can't imagine the devastation that would have followed such news. First was the awful announcement of a mining accident. I'm sure that families and friends of miners live with the awful fear of such an occurrence. How awful must it be to know your loved one---father, brother, husband, son---is trapped hundreds of feet in the bowels of the earth, in darkness, possibly dying? A terrible thing to imagine.

And then the painful waiting. Waiting for news, for any word. In this case, over 40 long hours of anxious waiting. Then came word that 12 of the miners were alive! Instant jubilation! Emotions, tears, cheers, disbelief! A miracle!

But reports say that word given was that 12 miners were found. Period. Nothing said about them being found alive. Now, whether that's true---who knows. Communication had been going back and forth via cell phones. And hope springs eternal. Lots of factors that could have jumbled the message. And a crushing blow when, three hours later, the shocking news that instead of celebrating, mourning was in order.

Children would have been told that their fathers were alive. Parents would have heard that their sons had made it. Wives would have been waiting to embrace their husbands and care for them, wrap them in their love. How can a heart survive the kind of blow dealt when discovery is made several hours later that everything is upside down? I can't comprehend it.

And I also wonder about the lone survivor, still in critical condition. There's a weight, a guilt, that accompanies such a survivor and his family. The burden of being the one who made it, the one who was spared. Life is so complicated---joy and sorrow mixed in the very same experience.

Does a heart ever heal?